


Awaiting the Dawn

by Nastrandir



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst, Drama, F/M, Hurt No Comfort, Romance, Self-Sacrifice, Self-harm (blood magic), So many of the DA origin stories have such potential for tragedy, Some violence (but mainly offscreen), Suicidal thoughts (background mainly), Tragedy, Trauma, not a happy ending in sight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-02
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-12 10:53:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28884201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nastrandir/pseuds/Nastrandir
Summary: When Arenyth arrives at Redcliffe Castle, she encounters someone she thought she would never see again.
Relationships: Amell/Jowan (Dragon Age)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 3





	1. Meetings

**Author's Note:**

> Dipping back into some old DA stories to post them over here. This one's completed, 5 chapters long. It doesn't take place in the same plot universe as my Hawke stories. 
> 
> Please heed the archive warning for this one. I will be updating the tags as needed as I post more chapters, but if I've missed anything else that should be more explicitly tagged, please let me know (I'm still getting used to how amazingly flexible the tagging system is here). The story isn't graphic, but the themes are pretty heavy at points, and there's nothing light about the way it ends. 
> 
> This is also posted over at ff.net by me, under the same username and complete.
> 
> Thanks for reading :)

“Bann Teagan.” She uncurled her fingers slowly. “I…have a request, if you would hear me out.” 

He nodded. “As you wish.”

“May I see the prisoner?”

“The mage?” Teagan scowled. “Are you certain this is wise?”

_No,_ she thought. _Not certain, and certainly not wise_. “My lord, please. He - he was my friend, a long time ago.” 

“Very well.” Teagan scrubbed a hand across his face. “He did help us. Just…be careful, my lady.” 

_Yes, he did help us._ She remembered. _Came into the Fade with you, and helped you find the demon in Connor’s body and drive it out._

“Thank you.” Some strange apprehension fluttered behind her ribs. She had _just_ seen him, mere hours ago, so why was she nervous now? _But that was when he was flanked by guards, with Irving looking on in disapproval._

“Arenyth?” Very gently, Alistair touched her shoulder. “Do you want me to come with you?” 

She turned, looked into his soft, earnest eyes and almost wished that she might say yes. But no, she could not, because Jowan was _her_ friend, and a traitor, and a maleficar, and _hers_. “No,” she answered. “No. I’ll be fine.” 

“Alright.” For a long moment, he looked like he wanted to add something, but then he shrugged, grinned. “I’ll be here, taking advantage of Bann Teagan’s hospitality. And food. Mainly the food.” 

They would leave with the dawn, she knew, off to Denerim and the scholar Lady Isolde was so sure knew of this Urn, and where it had might have been hidden. Still, that left her with another night at the castle and her own thoughts and Jowan, locked in the dungeon. Leliana had planned some song, she was sure, something sprightly and light, something that might cheer the arlessa. There would be a meal tonight, a feast even, and good company, but she found herself, well, not uncaring, but certainly disinterested. 

She brushed past Alistair, murmured something about how she would see him later perhaps, at dinner. She felt his gaze following her as she stalked through the door and down the steps, but she could not explain, not yet. He had been with her when they had first crept into the castle, edging through the filth in the tunnel, Teagan’s signet ring pressed into her sweat-slick palm. Zevran and Wynne as well, and they had _all_ seen how her face had fallen, she was sure of it. _Had they also heard how her heart had thundered, and seemed to slam against her ribs, so painfully?_

With a knifing kind of clarity she remembered his face, that last day at the Circle Tower. How he had thrown himself between the templars and the girl he said he loved. 

_Did he?_ Had _he loved her, the Chantry girl, the initiate?_

Arenyth shook her head, tried to banish such thoughts. It mattered little now, in any case. He was treacherous and imprisoned, and had loved someone else, or so he said, and she was a Grey Warden. 

She took the long way, threading past the armoury and the other big, empty hall and into the small kitchens. There, she coerced a plate of rye bread and cold chicken and crumbling cheese from the harried, tired-looking serving girl. She scooped up a flask of wine on her way out, briefly wondered if the girl had noticed, and decided that she simply did not care. 

_Not right now, not when the desiccated corpses that had prowled the castle corridors were still being shoveled out by the guards._

Underfoot, the floor changed. There were no lush carpets here, no tapestries adorning cold stone walls. She nodded to the guard and briskly told him she had Bann Teagan’s permission to speak with the prisoner. He waited, looked her up and down, and gave in, unlocking the door and motioning her through. 

The air was still rank, tasting of pooled, old water and mildew. Cobwebs thick in the corners, and the stone damp and somehow cloying beneath her feet. A single torch, flickering nearby and sending the shadows wheeling madly. She paused by the archway and called out, “Jowan? It’s me.” 

She heard him shift and move, tentative footsteps.

"Arenyth?”

Her heart was in her throat again. Did he know how the relief had swept through her, turned her all weak-kneed and shaky, when she had seen him? Beside her, Wynne had caught her elbow, steadying her, perhaps even understanding. Alistair had asked some of the questions, occasionally looking back at her, and she mumbled something about how yes, she knew him, knew this dark-haired, pale mage with the sad, hopeless look in his very blue eyes. 

The truth - or parts of it - had come slowly, pained words from a man in tattered robes that were splashed with blood. His own, she learned, and not, this time, through some forbidden rite. Rather the simple, brutal tactic of torture, and she wondered at how many scars might map the skin beneath his clothes now. 

_There were none that night, or any of the others,_ she remembered, treacherously. _Back when you were both so young, and so unscarred, by life or anything else._

“Arenyth.” He said her name again, and she almost stepped back when he approached the bars. “What are you doing here?” 

She forced a smile, ice-bright and just as brittle. He looked so tired, she noticed again. Tired and so thin and wrung through, deep shadows around his blue eyes. “I thought you might want some company.” 

“Oh.” His face clouded with confusion. “Oh. I…what about your friends?” 

“They’ll be eating. With Bann Teagan, I suppose.” 

“Oh,” he said again. 

“I brought you some food.” 

The plate would not fit, so she lifted the bread off first, tilting and sliding it through the bars to him. She watched the agile motion of his fingers as he accepted it. She said nothing, only passed the cold meat through next. Wordlessly he took the cheese last, broke the chunk in half, and passed the bigger portion back to her. 

Arenyth smiled, nodded slightly when she bit into it, enjoying the crumbling sharpness of it. Left with the flask, she shook it at him questioningly. 

The ghost of a smile pulled at his mouth. “Do you intend for me to have a hangover as well as all my other troubles?”

She grinned properly and tugged the cork out. She took a deep, heady swig from the flask, shuddered as the wine seared down her throat. “More for those of us who want it, then.”

“I didn’t _say_ I didn’t want it.” He reached through the bars, and his hand brushed across hers. “Thank you. For the food.” 

She nodded again. Before she could think about it too much, she let herself slide down the wall until she was sitting. He gazed down at her for a long moment before copying her. The silence stretched, broken only by the sound of the wine sloshing as he lifted the flask. 

She wanted to ask him…Maker, so many things. 

_How was he caught by the templars? Had it hurt, the first cut he made in service to his blood magic? And when had he first done it, as a matter of fact, and why had he not told her?_

The Tower and the templars and Lily lay behind them, but she could not quite find the words she needed. So instead, she reached out for the flask again and said, “Do you remember that time we spent the whole evening sitting on Irving’s windowsill?”

Jowan laughed, a small, spluttering noise of surprise. “Yes,” he answered. “Of course I do. How could I forget? The _height_. It was _horrible_.” 

But it had been wonderful, too, sitting with their legs dangling over the edge, backs to the casement, and staring out over Lake Calenhad as the sun set and the moon rose behind thin skeins of white cloud. Irving had discovered them eventually, she recalled, and startled them when he whipped the curtains open and growled something about young and stupid apprentices who were lucky that it was not a windier night. 

“ _You_ dared me to do it,” she pointed out. 

“I never thought you’d actually take me up on the suggestion.” 

“How old were we?”

“I was seventeen.” 

Meaning she must have been around fifteen or so, she supposed. So long ago, it seemed, that they had sat up there, looking down on the lake and the whole world, free of templars and spellbooks and regulations and dormitory rules. 

“Well, you didn’t have to come up there with me.”

“Oh, really?” Jowan shifted closer, leaning his shoulder against the bars. “I was meant to pace around in Irving’s study just _waiting_ to get caught, was I?”

“Instead you got grabbed by the scruff of the neck and dragged back in through the window. And you screamed.”

“I didn’t scream.”

“You screamed.”

“I…cried out.”

How easy and how simple, she thought, to fall back into this wonderful rapport, this effortless back-and-forth of words that had nothing to do with the fate of Ferelden, or blood, or darkspawn. Words that had to do with friendship, and silliness, and the inconsequential trouble and mistakes of children. 

“Do you remember when you caught two of the senior enchanters getting far too friendly in the library?”

She giggled, but even to her own ears, it sounded strained. “And I came running to get you and tell you.”

“But by the time we got back there, they’d gone.”

“And you never did believe me.”

“Yes, I did,” Jowan said, sounding vaguely affronted. 

“Well, you said you didn’t.”

“Well, yes, but you said you hated me nearly every day of the year you were fourteen.”

“Fourteen-year-old girls hate everything. It’s part of our charm.” 

That word again, and she cringed. _Hate_. _Why_ did he have to say it, and why did she have to say it back to him? _Stupid,_ she thought fiercely. She glared at her fingers, locked around her knees. 

“Where will you go next?” Jowan asked. 

Jolted out of her thoughts, Arenyth blinked. “To Denerim. To see a man called Brother Genetivi. About finding the Urn of Sacred Ashes.”

He shook his head slowly. “You’re a Grey Warden, and you’re saving Ferelden, and now you’re going to go and find the Urn of Sacred Ashes. Maker above, Arenyth.”

And he was in here, with his own blood drying on his clothes, and she did not know what she could say to that. 

“Arenyth, I…”

“Don’t.” She shook her head and stared vehemently at the cold stone between her feet. “Just - please just don’t.”

“I’m sorry,” he began, but she cut across him again. 

“Don’t. Just…talk to me about something. Anything. Anything else.” 

Silence stretched between them, glass-thin. She heard him moving and wondered if he was tugging his cuffs down over his wrists - one of the habits that had found him barked at by more than a few of their instructors - and rubbing his fingertips together, like he nearly always did when he was rigidly nervous. Eventually, he said, “Do you still drink too much red wine?”

“Only when I can afford it. Are you still ticklish?”

“Utterly,” he answered, entirely dead-pan. “Right down - "

“- Under your ribs.” She grinned. “I remember finding out.”

He groaned. “You tormented me.” 

“I was young and bored.”

“So crashing into me, slamming me into the wall and _tickling_ me was the best way to alleviate your boredom?”

“I remember enjoying it at the time.”

_The soft feel of his robes under her hands, and then the way he just buckled and gave in, did not even retaliate, only gave a high-pitched shriek. She ended up sprawled across him, and cringed when she heard one of the templars snap at her to stop her damn horsing around and get_ off _the poor boy._

“Do you still talk in your sleep?”

“What? Jowan, I did that _once_.” 

“Not according to the other poor apprentice who had to sleep in the bunk next to yours.”

“Huh. I’m surprised anyone would hear _me_ _talking_ over that stupid girl who used to snore like a dying hog.” 

The silence returned, deep and cloaking and terrible. She stared down at her linked hands, and wondered again why she ached so much. She did not want to speak of hatred, and darkness, and what might happen when she left for Denerim, or what _would_ happen when he was taken back to the Tower. Or of what had happened in the long months before she had left - before she had made the choice that was not truly a choice and followed Duncan to Ostagar. She wanted tales of that time Jowan had hopelessly tried to bluff his way around an instructor and failed, or the time they tried to sneak into the store room. Or all those nights they spent awake until dawn, back when they were children, and young, and knew nothing of the world outside of what the libraries told them and assured each other that they preferred it that way. 

She turned, reached out blindly for the wine flask. Her hand bumped against his sleeve, pushing aside damp fabric and revealing thin, white scars, webbing across the delicate bones of his wrist. 

He shifted uncomfortably, but she held on. Using her other hand to pilfer the wine flask, she did not let go of his wrist. “Oh, Maker. Jowan…” Gently, she peeled his cuff back and saw that the scars swirled down the inside of his arm. “When did you start doing this? When was it?” 

_And how is it that I didn’t know?_

“It was a few months before I met Lily.” His blue eyes darted, avoiding her. “I was…you know I was struggling with the lessons.” 

“Yes.”

“So I…there’s a lot in that library, if you know where to look. And some of it…well. It’s instinctual. Once you start. I just thought…I thought maybe it might help.” 

“Help what? You to get her into bed?”

He flinched. “No. Well, yes, but not just that. I wanted…something of my own. Something I could study, and make work for me.”

“But you never told her about it.”

“No. I never told anyone.”

_Not even me_. Gently, she traced the tip of one finger down the inside of his wrist. Even now, her stomach flipped over when she remembered that terrible day at the Tower. When she had allowed herself to be pulled into his harebrained scheme, only to find that it was serious, very serious, not like it had been when they were younger, and he meant to escape, somehow, any way he could. That he was going to be made Tranquil against his will, and he had chosen exile instead. 

_“They’re going to destroy me,” he said, his voice wavering. “All my emotions, all my memories…”_

_Coldness chased down her spine. She knew, then, that if it was true, and he was to be made Tranquil, she would help him, for how could she not? She did not want to see him speaking in nothing more than a monotone, blank-faced and hollow, even if it meant never seeing him again._

But then he had thrown himself in front of Lily, and she had seen the dagger in his hand. 

_He lifted it, and she_ knew, _she knew suddenly that he had been lying. He had lied to her, and probably to Lily as well, and then the blade came arcing down, driving into his palm and the air was full of sharp scent of fresh blood._

“Jowan,” she said, close to a whisper. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because…” He shrugged. “Because I was afraid you’d try to stop me.”

“Andraste’s flaming sword, you’re right I would’ve stopped you.” She glowered fiercely at him. “You didn’t need to….” Her eyes blurred, and she scowled. “You’re an idiot.” 

“I know,” he said, softly. 

“You should’ve told me, and then I could’ve helped you, even if I had to hit you over the head with the heaviest book I could find, you stupid man.” She rubbed her knuckles against suddenly stinging eyes. “I would’ve helped you. But now…”

“It’s over, Arenyth,” he said, as quietly. He pushed the wine flask into her hands. “It’s over.” He eased himself closer to the bars, so that his shoulder was pressed against hers. “Do you remember when you first arrived at the tower?”

This was better; this was what she wanted. Safe words, and old stories that they both knew, with predictable, gentle happenings. “Of course I do. You couldn’t _stand_ me. For at least half a year.”

“Lies and slander.”

“Three months.”

“I’ll give you that.” He hooked the wine flask back, bumped his elbow against the bars and winced. “You were so annoying.”

“And you were so melancholy. I swear you did nothing but sigh when they made you look after me.” She grinned at the sudden memory, of a tall, skinny, black-haired boy of around eight years old. Folding his arms and grimacing, and declaiming again and to anyone who would listen that he was just _so_ out of luck, and why did they have to make him look after a _girl_ in any case? Could they not have found someone closer to his own age and tastes? He had been soundly ignored, she recalled, and told in no uncertain terms that he spent too much time on his own, and that the company would do him good. 

_And, for some years, it did._

“Jowan. If we hadn’t gone back to the Tower to get Irving, if there hadn’t been time, would you really have..?”

He sighed. “Would I have…? What? Killed Arlessa Isolde? If that was the only way.”

“What would have happened?”

“Almost the same as what _did_ happen, Arenyth. You would’ve gone into the Fade, but without me, and rescued Connor.” 

“You know what I mean,” she said. 

“There would have been a lot of blood, and the arlessa would have died, quite painfully.” He brushed a hand across his face. “Please don’t…I don’t want to talk about this. Please.” 

She nodded silently. “I understand.”

He lifted the wine flask, tipped it to one side thoughtfully. “We got through that rather quickly.”

She laughed, a little raggedly. “I think we have an excuse or three, don’t you?”

“Unlike when you made off with those two whole carafes.” And suddenly, he was her Jowan again, all weary-sounding voice and slightly timid smile, those black eyebrows furrowing together. “I can’t believe you drank most of it.”

“You drank the rest.”

“And paid for it,” he added mournfully. “My _head_. I wanted to die.” 

She bit her lip. She wanted to reach through the bars and touch him and tell him that she would help him escape, help him leave. _Except you won’t_ , she thought coldly. _You won't and you can't and you don't know which is worse. He’s Bann Teagan’s prisoner, and responsible for nearly killing Arl Eamon, and he’s going to be sent back to the Tower for execution._ “Jowan?”

“Yes?”

“Never mind.” 

She tried to move closer, but the bars were cold and damp and flaking bits of rust onto her tunic. Still, she managed to hunch near enough that her shoulder and side aligned against his, and when she leaned her head against the bars, he mirrored her. 

“Did you love Lily?” The question fled from her lips before she could reconsider, and she wondered if he might shy away, ask her to leave, refuse to answer. 

“I don’t know. I thought I did. I thought was saving her, taking her away.” A strange, dreamy smile pulled at his mouth. “I….don’t know. That’s the truth.”

His hand moved, and very gently cupped over the crown of her head. When she did not shake him off, he threaded his fingers into her hair as carefully. She smiled and let her eyes close and remembered. Remembered how she had been maybe seventeen, and how they had found themselves in some dreary, dusty corner of the library, in search of some scroll or other. 

_The high shelves, all warm mahogany and smelling of vellum and ink and the heat of the fireplace in the adjoining chamber. Tiny oil lamps dangled above, throwing flickering light over the iron-banded edges of old tomes. She reached past him, grabbing for a book, and realised just how_ close _he was. Close enough that she could see the silver threads along his collar. Close enough that she could count his eyelashes when he blinked and looked down at her._

_“Jowan, I…”_

_“Yes?” His voice wavered._

_“You have very blue eyes.”_

_“Do I?”_

_“Yes.” She lifted a hand to touch his face, changed her mind, and grinned nervously. “I just never…really noticed before.”_

_“Oh.”_

He had done nothing that day, she remembered, except wind his hands through her hair and mumble something about how good it smelled. 

“Jowan?”

“Mm-hm?”

Her eyes were still closed, half lost in memory, and she could feel the soft cloth of his robes beneath her cheek. “I missed you.” 


	2. Memories

Arenyth drifted, half dreaming, half aware of the cold stone beneath her and the bars propping her up and the warm, familiar shape of the mage next to her. Perhaps they had spoken some more, but she was not sure, and she found that neither was she bothered. _This_ was good, this was familiar and reassuring, listening to the soft rhythm of his breathing and feeling his fingers play against her hair. 

Somewhere nearby footsteps struck against the stone, approaching and loud. A half-instant too late, she flinched away from Jowan, and stared up at Wynne. She shoved up to her feet too fast, discovered that her ankles were numb, and swayed. “Wynne, I…”

Wynne’s face stayed placid, her gaze as fixed on Arenyth. “It’s late. Dinner is finished, your hosts are missing the hero of the day, and I suspect that if you don’t come back with me, they’ll send out a search party.”

“I’m sorry. I was…I was down here, and I lost track of time. Was dinner good?” She was babbling, and horribly aware of it and the way Jowan was shrinking back from the bars, digging his hands into the rumpled folds of his robes. “Did Alistair save me any?”

Wynne’s gaze turned speculative. “It’s late, Arenyth. We’re to leave early. Daybreak.” 

“Daybreak.” She groaned and raked her fingers through her hair. “That’s too cruel.”

“Come.” Firmly, Wynne grasped her elbow. “Let us see if we can find you some leftovers at least.”

“Oh, that’s nice. Scraps is it, just because I missed dinner?” She wanted to look back, wanted to _run_ back, but she could not. Not with Wynne briskly steering her up the steps and out of the dungeon and away from him. 

In the kitchens, Wynne sat her down and made her finish off a plate of cold meat and sliced apple, along with another chunk of the same crumbling cheese she had pilfered for Jowan. “Keep eating,” Wynne said when she dared to lean back from the table. “It’s a long way to Denerim.”

She stared down at the plate. The meat seemed suddenly tasteless, stringy and too dry. Tomorrow they would leave, and that would be it. He would be taken back to the Circle, and he would be executed. Arenyth swallowed and said, “Wynne, I can’t eat any more.”

Not censuring, the older mage sat beside her, clasped long fingers together. “Do you wish to talk about him?”

“No,” she snapped. “I mean…no. Thank you. I can’t.”

Wynne nodded. “I understand. I am here, though, if you wish it.”

“All this time,” she said, the words spilling out unbidden. “All this time, I wondered where he was. If he was even alive. If the templars had caught him.” She pushed the plate away. “I don’t…he looks the same. Is there nothing we can do?”

“No,” Wynne said, softly. “He’s a blood mage.” 

Spoken out loud, the words sent something cold and ugly worming through her stomach again. She had always been taught that it was forbidden and too dangerous, and that those who attempted it and mastered it were the worst of mages, and the most lethal.

“No matter what the original intent,” Wynne added, answering her unspoken thoughts. “No matter why a mage might turn to such things, the end result is the same. Enslavement, to their own power, and dominance over others. Can you imagine if your own power, your own spells, were swept under by the magic of a blood mage, and controlled? It is slavery of the worst kind. Mages are dangerous, sometimes to themselves, and there are reasons maleficarum are not allowed to live.”

“You sound like the templars,” Arenyth snarled. She drew in a steadying breath. “I’m sorry.” 

She ground the heels of her hands into her eyes. She was tired, achingly so, and she wondered when she had last slept properly. _That night after the Harrowing_ , she decided. _When they brought you back in and you slept all the way through the next day,_ _and he woke you and you just_ knew _something was wrong._

Something that had been growing in him - festering - for months, if she thought about it. He had been often distracted, turned down her offers to test spells and study together, muttering about this girl he had met, all too-bright eyes and forgetful in a way she did not recognise. He was thinner, as well, and paler than usual beneath that thick, dark mop of hair. 

_Why_ did she not speak to him earlier? She could have cornered him and pried the truth from him, the way she was always able to, when they were younger. 

“You need to rest,” Wynne suggested. 

“No, I need to pretend that I’m not here, that he’s not down in that dungeon, and that I’m going to wake up at the Tower and find out that it’s all been a particularly nasty dream.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“No. Not really.” 

“Come.” Wynne gestured to the door. “You need sleep. You have had a rather trying day.” 

_Trying?_ Arenyth bit the inside of her cheek. Part of her wanted to shriek at the older mage, or maybe flounce out and slam the door for good measure. She settled for glaring and muttered, “I’m a Grey Warden, and we can conscript, can’t we?”

Wynne blinked slowly. “You are not serious.” 

“No, of course I’m not,” she snapped. “We don’t have the right…materials.” _Darkspawn blood in thin glass vials, and lyrium, and secrecy, and the thick, choking taste of it, filling your throat._ “Besides, I’m the junior Grey Warden in these parts, and do you really think I could convince Alistair that it would be a good idea?”

“No, and that is _because_ it would not be a good idea.” Wynne touched her arm. “Come. You need to rest.”

“Yes, Mother.” She managed a sarcastic grin, and knew that Wynne was right. She bade farewell to the older mage at the stairs, and slowly meandered her way up to the guest rooms. The corridors were mercifully deserted, the night air turning cool. Normally she would have enjoyed bumping into Alistair, or Leliana, or wrestling with Dog. But Dog was enjoying exploring the castle the last she had seen, and the others must certainly be asleep by now, and besides, she wanted no company but her own. 

She stepped over the threshold into her chambers, far grander than the apprentice dormitories they had been used to growing up. Kicking off her boots, she closed the door. Meandering across the thick rug, she idly noticed the tapestries again, hunting scenes in bright colours galloping across the heavy fabric. The bed was wide and inviting, heavy drapes tied back against posts scrolled with twisting patterns. She touched the blankets thoughtfully, changed her mind, and chose the windowseat instead. She pushed the curtains aside and curled up, leaning her forehead against the panes. Below, she could see the outer wall and its flickering torches, and high parapets. Beyond that, there was the darkness of the lake, and the rising roofs of the tavern and the dockside houses. This late, few lights shone. Smoke twined up, thin grey lines against the cloudless dome of the sky. 

Ignoring the spread of the village, Arenyth gazed down at the lake. Deep and dark and unending as the sky above, and uneven where the wind rippled soft waves across the surface. The same lake she had spent so many hours gazing at growing up, sometimes alone, mostly with Jowan beside her. It looked different from this side, she decided, though she could not quite pinpoint why. 

_"What did they do to you?”_

_“What they do to all traitors and would-be assassins, I suppose.”_

She had listened to the arlessa, heard how she had bargained with an apostate to train her son in secret. How the mage in question had proved treacherous, and poisoned her husband, and had been tortured in turn. 

He was sorry, so very sorry, he said. 

How many times had she heard that from him? 

_“I thought you were here to kill me.”_

_Arenyth shook her head desperately. She was aware of Wynne, watching her, and Alistair protectively close behind her. “No. Jowan, no. Why would - why would I even think that…?”_

_“Why wouldn’t you?” He smiled, and it did not reach his eyes at all. “After everything I’ve done to us.”_

_Something shocked through her, very close to pain. He was not talking about the blood magic, not entirely, and she felt the others looking at her. “I’m not…” She reached out, gripped the bars and barely heard Zevran’s murmur to take care, to not stand so close. “Maker’s wisdom, Jowan. I’m not going to hurt you.”_

Arenyth tipped her head back against the wall. She needed to sleep, and dream of harmless things, and wake up in time to prepare for the journey to Denerim. Not dwell on past choices and old thoughts. _Didn’t you learn_ any _practicality since Ostagar?_ But thoughts could be treacherous, and even when she squeezed her eyes shut, tight enough that white light burst against her eyelids, she saw him. 

_"Wake up.”_

_She rolled over, burrowed back under her pillow. “Go away.”_

_“Oh, don’t be silly. Wake up.”_

_She cracked an eye open and glared. “Go_ away _.”_

_“You always sound so pleased to see me.” He sat on the bed. Still whispering, he said, “Come on. Get up. I want to show you something.”_

_She sighed. “Jowan, it’s the middle of the night, and you’re going to wake everyone else up, and then_ I’m _going to have to explain that no, we’re not having some torrid affair, you’re just loud and clumsy.”_

_“You’ll like it, I promise.”_

_“No, I won’t. And Maker knows what anyone who overheard_ that _is going to think.”_

_He folded his arms. “Fine. I’ll leave you alone and then you’ll be sorry.”_

_“No, I won’t.” She rolled over properly, peered up at him. “Oh, don’t pout. I can’t handle it when you pout at me.”_

_“I know.” Grinning, he tugged the sheets away. “Now come on.”_

_Muttering under her breath, she kicked out of bed, shivered when her bare feet touched cold stone. As always, he obligingly turned around when she reached for the leggings left heaped over the chest nearby. She wriggled into them, heaved off her nightdress, and chose a loose shirt. She finally unearthed her boots, half under the bed._ _S_ _till grousing to herself, Arenyth trailed him between the apprentices’ bunks, and idly wondered if anyone was awake or had heard them and was politely pretending they were blissfully unaware. Out in the corridor, he turned left, and she supposed they were heading for the library. She followed him down the steps, creeping past the few doors that were open, or else had light glowing beneath, as they had so many times before._

_The library was deserted. Pale lines of moonlight slanted in through the high windows. She followed him past the long tables, and the high shelves, and round the corner to the arched casement that she often sat in to read._

_“There,” Jowan said. “Go on. Look.”_

_She shot him a vaguely suspicious look, then leaned forward and peered out into the night. The lake was still, unruffled, and beyond, the sweeping curve of the far shore was_ white _. Bright and crisp and seeming almost to shine. “Oh..."_

_He leaned on his elbows beside her. “It’s been snowing.”_

_“Oh.” She had read about snow, and had a few times seen thick white flakes tumbling past the tall windows and felt how cold the days turned sometimes when the wind wove in through tiny gaps below the frames or under the doors. “It’s beautiful.”_

_He nudged her gently. “Still wish I’d gone away and let you sleep?”_

_She shook her head. “No. This is lovely. Jowan?”_

_"Mmm?”_

_“Thank you.”_

_They stood like that for a long time, their foreheads almost touching the panes. The night sky was clear and cold, the moon nearly full. She sighed, realised that her shoulder was pressed comfortably against his. “What do you think it feels like?”_

_"_ _The snow?” He shrugged. “Cold, miserable, and wet, I believe.”_

_She snorted. “You’re such a poet.”_

_“You asked.” He turned his head too quickly, and jumped when his nose bumped against hers. “Sorry.”_

_When he shifted and gathered himself to duck out of the casement, she caught his arm. “Don’t?”_

_He stared down at her, his black eyebrows meeting as he frowned. “It’s late. We need to go to back to bed.” Jowan coughed. “I mean…”_

_He was right, and she should be stepping away, and agreeing to help him with tomorrow’s lessons, and wondering about whether she was going to hold an arcane shield long enough to impress their instructors._ _But she could feel him trembling faintly through his robes, and he was close enough that each shallow breath he took stirred her hair. She needed to nod, or make some sardonic remark, or tell him that he needed to shave again already, before she did something ridiculous._

_Jowan’s hand closed over hers. “Arenyth, I don’t think…”_

_Normally, she would have retorted back that no, he_ never _thinks, so why would he start now?_ _Instead, she slipped her arms up around his neck, heard him murmur her name again, and kissed him. His shoulders went rigid, and she wondered if he was going to pull away._ Wonderful, _she thought._ Now you’ve _really_ done it. Great way to embarrass yourself. He’s not going to be able to look at you for a month.

_He clasped her face between his hands and kissed her back, hungry and clumsy and desperate. His fingers knotted in her hair. He claimed her lips again, and she pressed herself against him. When she finally broke away from him, she was gasping, and her mouth felt bruised. “Jowan…”_

_“I…oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t…”_

_“You are an idiot. A girl kisses you and you_ apologise _for kissing her back?” She leaned her forehead against the side of his neck. “Was that…should_ I _be apologizing?”_

_He laughed. “Do you ever?”_

_“Sometimes.”_

_“This time you don’t need to.” He tilted her chin up. “You’re…I feel like I never looked at you before. Not properly.”_

_She grinned. “You can look at me now. Or whatever else you might want to do.”_

_“Oh.” His voice held a low, charged note she had never heard before. “Arenyth, I don’t…”_

_He was looking worried again, that pinched frown that he was rarely without. She clasped the collar of his robes and silenced him with another thorough kiss. His hands wandered down her back before they settled around her waist. Somehow she ended up sitting back against the casement with him standing between her knees and her fingers buried in his thick black hair._

_“Don’t you have to get up early?”_

_“Yes,” she answered, still grinning. “And I’m going to be tired, and grouchy, and you’re just going to hate me.”_

_“Why would I do that?”_

_“Because you’re studying with me, remember. Ice spells?”_

_“Oh. Wonderful. You’re so charming in the morning.”_

_"Yes.” She ran her thumbs along his jaw, felt the rough brush of his stubble. “But it’s not morning right now.”_

_“It will be soon.”_

_"_ _Not yet it isn’t. Come here.”_

Arenyth vaulted down onto the carpet. Her heart was thundering and when she licked her lips, she tasted salt. They had stayed in that windowseat nearly all night, trading greedy, graceless kisses and both of them laughing into each other's mouths when they thought too much about it, about how dizzyingly new it felt. The footsteps of the templars in the corridor had startled them close to dawn, and she had stolen back to the dormitory with her lips all swollen and her hands already missing the way he felt. 

She quartered the carpet twice and wondered if Lady Isolde would mind if she simply charred the whole room with a fireball.

_Shouldn’t’ve done it. Should’ve said thank you for the snow, and the lake, and gone back to bed._ She gulped down another breath, tried to calm her racing pulse. _But you didn’t. You suffered through ice spells feeling awful the next day, and spent most of it tangling your ankles around his under the table while the instructor pretended not to notice._ That afternoon had found them hidden away on the small library two floors up from the dormitories while she learned how wonderfully easy it was to while away what seemed like hours sitting on his lap, how easy it was to learn how he preferred to be kissed, how she preferred to be held. 

She remembered the rumours, and how quickly they had spread, and the other girls asking if it was really true, did they really see her kissing _him_ , the strange pale boy who was always seemed so uncertain? 

She was out through the door and halfway down the corridor before she properly realised that she was even moving. She paused, listened to the silence. The castle was still, and she knew her friends were tired and unlikely to be out roaming the halls, hopefully least of all looking for her. She found a lantern in the kitchens, and a fresh candle. At the dungeon door, she growled at the guard and demanded that he let her through and he backed down faster than she guessed he might. 

She strode down the steps, the lantern light spilling across grey stone. She heard him move, and then his shadow slanted through the bars. 

“Maker’s breath - Arenyth, what are you doing?” 

“You weren’t asleep.”

“No.” Jowan raked a hand through his hair. He looked worse, all ashen pallor and filthy robes. “No, I wasn’t.”

“Fancy some company?”

He stared at her for a long, wavering moment. “You shouldn’t be here.” 

“I know.” She found a hook near the cell door and let the lantern hang. “I couldn’t sleep.” 

He smiled then, slowly and tentatively. “That never used to be a problem.” 

She sat next to the bars again, leaned back against the chill stone. “It’s cold down here.”

“It’s a dungeon,” Jowan said, wryly. “I think it’s meant to be cold.” 

“The dormitories were cold as well.”

“Not always.” 

And Maker above, there it was again, that soft, slightly teasing tone that she thought she had all but forgotten. “You’re still a liar, Jowan,” she said, gently, so gently she surprised herself. “We never did it in the dormitories.” 

He shrugged. “Sorry.”

“How many times can you say that word?” she snapped. “Does it get easier, the more you say it?”

“No. No, it doesn’t.” 

She subsided, aware of the anger that still flared, somewhere behind her sternum. She wanted to shout at him, tell him how much a fool he had been, and _why_ had he not at least _talked_ to her? “I should go,” she muttered. She stared at her feet, at the patch of damp water clinging to the stone beneath. “Do you want me to go?” 

“No.” Jowan reached through the bars and very carefully laced his fingers through hers. “No, I don’t want you to go.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading :)


	3. Farewells

The night crawled on and the candle burned low. Arenyth’s eyes were gritty, and the stone beneath her was turning icy. The base of her spine felt knotted and painful, and she knew she should be in bed and asleep, and hopefully not dreaming of darkspawn. Instead she still sat with him, silently now, waiting for the dawn. 

Jowan’s skin was cold. As she had already done too many times tonight, she turned his hands over, explored his scarred palms. “Do they hurt?” 

“No.”

“I didn’t think…I thought blood mages would usually…cut _other_ people.” 

One side of his mouth hitched up. “Other blood mages probably do. Other blood mages probably don’t hide it from everyone and quiver in fear every time a templar walks past.” 

She remembered how afraid he had been, that morning he had cannoned into her, babbling something about secrets and hatred and the Harrowing and the Tranquil. How she had snarled at him, blurting out the same words she had heard from the others, whispered when they thought she could not quite hear them.

_“Are the rumours true?”_

_He scowled. “What? No! I’ve never…I’d never use blood magic. Don’t you know that? Don’t you know me?”_

She thought she did, despite all that lay behind them. “I wanted to believe you.”

“About…when I said…?”

“Yes.” She followed a long, curving scar with the tip of one finger. “I wanted to. But…Maker, Jowan. Afterwards, there was some terrible part of me that was not really all that shocked.” 

“With my big revelation, you mean?” The same smile stayed, slightly sardonic, mostly sad. “I didn’t…really know what I was doing. I just wanted to get out, and then Irving and Greagoir were there, and we were _almost_ free, but…”

_Woken power, rippling through disturbed air, whining and slicing and the templars fell screaming, clawing at their own throats. She spun round, staring at him in horrified disbelief. There seemed to be blood everywhere, streaming from the dreadful wound on his hand, more on his face, too much on the floor. She almost wanted to run to him, bolt into his arms and check that he was alright, but how could he be?_

“I know. I just…” She shook her head. 

_“I have…blood magic. There may be little time, and we don’t have enough lyrium here to perform such a ritual. But I could…send someone into the Fade. Using…well, blood.”_

She remembered how he had avoided her eyes, how he had stared at the floor just in front of Lady Isolde’s feet. How he had gripped the bloodstained, fraying ends of his sleeves in white fingers and twisted them. 

“You didn’t just _dabble_ , did you?” 

“No. I didn’t.” Jowan stared down at their linked hands. “Do you know what troubled me most, when I ran?” 

“Lily?” 

He winced. “To begin with. And it still does. I lied to her. She thought she was in love with someone much more honest than me. But I…” He lifted his head. “I knew I’d killed those templars. I saw Greagoir fall over, and I hoped I’d killed him, as well. But I didn’t know what had happened to you.” 

“I hit the ground, rather hard.” 

“I didn’t…hurt you?” 

She laughed faintly. “I hurt my knees.” 

“Oh.” His gaze darted. “I didn’t want to hurt you. More than anything - I didn't want to hurt you.” 

Very gently, she traced her fingers along the backs of his hands, down the slender lines of his wrists. She remembered another night, so very different, when they had sat like this, cross-legged and facing each other, and she had held both of his hands like this. “How did they find you?”

“They had horses, and I didn’t. They had maps, and you know what I’m like.” 

She snorted. “Got lost in the small library once, as I recall.”

“I was _nine_ years old.” 

“Stop evading.”

“I killed three of them.” This time, he did not look away. “I thought the others would be sure to kill me once they got close. Their friends…did not die well. But they just - they knocked me out, and tied me up and gagged me, and took me to see Teyrn Loghain.” 

“Lucky you,” she muttered sourly. “And then you poisoned Arl Eamon.” 

“Yes. I didn’t…Arenyth, I am sorry.”

“Stop saying that. Or I’ll…” She scowled through sudden, welling tears. “I’ll burn your eyebrows off. With a lightning bolt.”

“You never could aim those very well.”

“I could aim better than you.” She caught her lip between her teeth. “Jowan…how did we come to this?” 

“I’m a fool, Arenyth,” he said eventually. “That’s how we came to this.” 

He was right, she supposed, but Maker’s wisdom, it still hurt. “No, I…I didn’t help. I…when we fought. When we…”

_When we stopped seeing each other,_ she wanted to say, but the words stayed trapped in her throat. A stupid, petty argument, born of too many late nights and frayed nerves, and her quick tongue and his sullen temper. But she had stormed away, and he shouted something awful after her, and she had sulked, and he for once had not caved. They were young and foolish and she remembered one of the senior enchanters admonishing her for letting such a childish relationship go too much to her head. They had too much to concern themselves over, learning spells and how to hold arcane shields and how to confront the rippling mysteries of the Fade. Preparing for the Harrowing that _they knew_ left some apprentices dead. 

“I’m sorry.”

“ _Jowan_.”

“No, I mean it. About that. I never said I was sorry, and I was.” 

An awkward, stilted kind of had friendship picked up again, eventually, after she cornered him in the dormitories one night and informed him she was damned tired of having to duck the other way whenever she saw him approaching. But they never went to the library or the guest rooms after dark again, and by the time things were more as they had been, and she had dredged up the courage to ask if they could, he had nervously told her that he had met a girl. 

“I wish,” he said, and stopped. “Well, it doesn’t matter what I wish.”

She looked down at his hands again, traced the backs of his fingers. Finely made, and pale, and she had always thought them beautiful. “What was Loghain like?”

“Angry.” He shifted, moving closer to the bars. Clasping her hands between his, he smiled. “Your hands are still so small.” 

“Did you expect them to grow?”

“You are a Grey Warden now.” He did not let go. Instead he mirrored her, trailing the tips of his fingers over the backs of her knuckles. “Aren’t you all meant to be ten feet tall and capable of killing twelve darkspawn with a single swipe?” 

“Idiot.” 

“I see I haven’t lost my touch at flattery, then?” 

“Jowan, you never _had_ one.” 

“Now _you’re_ lying,” he said, quietly, not quite looking at her. 

_“Arenyth. Oh…you look…”_

_“Mmm?” She grinned up at him. The robes were new, and fell in deep crimson folds to her ankles. A cream sash criss-crossed around her hips and waist, knotted at the small of her back and dangling. For once she had pulled her hair out of its everyday braid and the long, thick locks spilled over her shoulders. “I look…?”_

_“Beautiful.” He reached out, gently brushed the soft line of the collar and dipped his fingers inside to touch her throat. “You look beautiful.”_

_“Flatterer.”_

_“Yes.” He slid his hand through her hair slowly. “It would be such a shame to lose this to a poorly blocked fire spell. Please keep it tied back when you practice.”_

_She groaned. “You’ve set your hair, your robes, your shoes, and Enchanter Dhekira’s eyebrows on fire in the past month. You’re the dangerous one of the two of us.”_

_“Very funny,” he muttered._

_“I’m sorry.” She leaned up and kissed his cheek. “Come with me.”_

_“Arenyth, it’s the middle of the day. We can’t…”_

_“Yes, we can. I know you don’t have anywhere to be right now. And Enchanter Grennan told me to go make myself useful elsewhere because he had to go and see the First Enchanter about something.”_

_Jowan frowned. “Something important?”_

_“He didn’t say. They_ never _say, you know that.” She caught his wrist, tugged. “Come on.”_

_She led him up the twisting, cold stone stairs, under a last, high archway, and towards the guest chambers. After checking the corridor again, she opened the door and steered him inside._

_“Arenyth…these are the guest rooms. We shouldn’t be up here.”_

_“No one knows we’re here.” Firmly, she shut the door and led him across to the bed. “And no one is going to be looking for us.”_

_“Oh…”_

_“Oh,” she echoed, smiling._

_She kissed him deeply, taking her time, letting her hands wander up his chest to cup his chin. His fingers tangled and caught in her hair. She explored the sharp angles of his face, the narrow lines of his shoulders, trembling slightly beneath his robes. Underneath, she discovered that his skin was marble-pale and soft, and she could see his pulse fluttering wildly at his throat._ _When she guided him to the ties on her robes, to the thick knot in the sash, he fumbled them apart. She let herself tumble backwards onto the bed, pulling him down with her. Without the familiar layers of their clothes in the way, everything suddenly became complicated. His knees kept bumping against hers and he apologised, then winced when her elbow glanced against his stomach._

_“Jowan,” she murmured. “It’s alright. Slow down.”_

_He laughed helplessly, cheeks flushed. His hands were cool as they traveled across her skin, tentative at first. He kissed her again, his stubble rasping against her chin. She dug her fingers through his unkempt black hair and felt him shudder when she raked her nails across his scalp. She rolled on top of him, marveling at the way her hips fit against his, so obviously, and so perfectly._

_S_ _he had seen some of him unclothed before - almost bare-chested sometimes, when they curled around each other in their windowseat, his shirt open so she could map out his ribs and feel the way his breathing changed, the way the soft skin of his stomach tensed or jumped when she traced her knuckles across it. The line of his throat sometimes not as trapped by his collar on the days she unfastened it, pushing the fabric aside so she could kiss the rapid beat of blood just above his collarbone. This was so different somehow though, with all of him laid out under her while he looked up at her in the same devouring way she was looking at him.  
_

_“Arenyth.” His voice came out slightly strangled. “Are you sure..?”_

_“I’m sure.” She leaned down and captured his mouth again. “I want you.”_

_He groaned, and his arms locked around her. She laughed and saw him smiling in response as they surged together. Her head dropped against his shoulder, and she lost herself, heard him whispering her name over and over, while his hands ran up and down her back._ _Afterwards, she sprawled across his bare chest, her head nestled against the crook of his shoulder. His fingers played tenderly through her hair. Through the window, she could see the cobalt glow of early twilight. They would have to move, and soon, but for now, she was content to lie tangled with him. Beneath her cheek, she could feel his heartbeat finally slowing down. She wondered if it was usual to feel this deliciously indolent afterwards, to be so aware of every press and point of skin and heat and bone where they touched. To be already wondering when they could conspire to do this again, to exhaust themselves silly between clean sheets and the tentative pretense of privacy.  
_

_“Jowan?”_

_“Mmm-hmm?”_

_“Is this…what you wanted?”_

_“You’re asking that now?” He tilted her chin up, and she saw that his face matched hers, open and content and slightly drowsy. “Yes. Yes, this is what I wanted.” He turned onto his side, gathered her hands between his. “Your hands are so small.”_

“Do you remember..?”

“Yes,” she answered, too quickly. Oh, yes, she remembered. “When we went to the Tower, I asked about you.” 

“You did?” He frowned. “Why?”

“I wanted…” She shook her head. “I don’t know. I wanted to know if they’d found you. If they knew where you were. They didn’t.” 

“Even after,” Jowan said. “Even after everything?” 

“Yes. Oh, yes.” 

“They didn’t tell you anything?”

“No. They said you hadn’t been seen. That they supposed you were dead.” It had hurt so very much, and she had managed to grit her teeth and grin icily at Greagoir’s faint smile. She had prowled away, feeling like she had just taken a kick to the gut, and had snarled at Alistair when he asked if she was alright, and did she want to talk about it? 

No, she had _not_ wanted to talk about it, because how would he or any of them understand? 

“What was the Tower like?” Jowan asked, tremulously. 

“In pieces. Uldred got back from Ostagar and decided to unleash a horde’s worth of demons.” She summoned up a brittle smile. “Gregoir wanted to call for the Rite of Annulment.”

“He would.”

“Maybe this time he was right.”

“You don’t mean that. Do you?”

“Not really.” She reached out for his hands again, heard him sigh. “But, Maker, Jowan…it was horrible.” 

Quietly she told him how it had been, how they had cut their way through the libraries, across carpets littered with the dead, while the air stank of spent magic and spilled blood. How Uldred and his followers had dragged mages and templars alike up into the Harrowing chamber, and done terrible things to them. How the sloth demon’s spell had proved too strong, and she had fled through the shifting, wrenching corridors of the Fade, trying to find her companions. How Uldred had finally fallen, his head cleaved from his shoulders, and the awful thing he had become had slumped across the stone floor, unmoving and sickening. 

“You’re braver than me. You always were.”

“You’re brave,” she said. “Just usually for the wrong reasons.” 

“Oh, that makes me feel so much better about myself.” He smiled, lopsided and mostly sad. 

“Sorry.”

_A practice round in one of the classrooms, and it should have been routine, mundane even. Shields to be flung up and held, and needling ice spells to be deflected, avoided, or just plain dodged. She was tired, and even before it was her turn to be called up by the instructor, she was yawning and wondering when the lesson might end. Two apprentices stepped up before her, and she listened vaguely to the instructor’s brisk criticism._

_Last night had been spent again in one of the empty guest rooms upstairs. They had planned to creep back down to the dormitories afterwards, but he had sat up, as comfortably naked as she was, run a hand through his hair and she had tackled him. Ploughing into him shoulder-first, she pitched him down onto the sheets again, and swung his arms above his head while he laughed at her._

_“Arenyth. Arenyth, are you with us? Arenyth?”_

_She jolted out of her daydream and grinned sheepishly. “Right here, ser.”_

_And then, quite suddenly, it had all went wrong. The first barrage of spells she managed to hold off. The second left her trembling and with sweat ribboning her temples. The third bit through her shields, and when she spun and tried to evade, the follow-up spell crashed into her. She heard the instructor calling her name, and someone else, and then the carpet rushed up to meet her._

_Later she woke to the smell of mixed herbs and lye soap and beeswax candles. Keeping her eyes closed, she breathed in and smiled. She shifted slightly, felt dry cotton move against her skin. Under her cheek, she felt soft, sliding fabric, and the warmth of someone else._

_“Don’t move,” Jowan said, his voice rough as if he had been coughing too much, or his throat had been clogged. “You passed out in the classroom. Do you remember?”_

_“Mmm. Yes. My head hurts.”_

_“You fell over.”_

_She opened one eye, found herself staring at the loose folds of Jowan’s blue robes, and the wall beyond. She was lying across her bunk, she realised, with her head in his lap. “Did they come and tell you?”_

_“No. I came to find you for dinner, and then they told me you’d fainted.” He traced his fingers down the side of her cheek before twining them through her hair. “You scared me. They wouldn’t let me see you at first. Said you needed to rest.”_

_“So you blazed in and burned the door down and demanded that you should?”_

_“No, I…agreed, walked off, sulked about it, and came back later.”_

_“You’re so brave.” She turned over, so that she was leaning against his thigh. “I don’t know what happened. Well, I do, but…oh, Maker. I don’t feel all that wonderful.”_

_“It’s alright. Apparently you can take a couple of days to do nothing but sleep.”_

_“Mmm. How tempting.” She nuzzled into his palm. “Thank you.”_

_“For what?”_

_“Being here.”_

_Much later, she surfaced from odd, disturbing dreams. Rolling over, she reached out and touched nothing but rumpled sheets. “Jowan?”_

_“Was ordered off to sleep,” replied the healer gently. “He was with you all night.”_

_“Oh.” She sat up and winced when her head spun. “Is he alright?”_

_“Just tired.” The healer smiled. “I thought I was going to have to get someone to help me drag him out.”_

“What are you thinking about?”

“Nothing,” she lied. “Well…I was trying to imagine you trying to teach Connor magic.”

“What?”

“You hate children. You always have. You even hated children when you _were_ a child.”

“It was trying,” he said. “Oh, what am I even saying? It was awful.”

Arenyth laughed, softly. “I’m not envious.” She looked up and saw that the candle was dying in its wax, its flame a yellow blur behind the panes of the lantern. That meant dawn was fast approaching, she knew. “Jowan, are you afraid?”

“No,” he said and stopped. “Yes. Yes, but…”

She looked up at him, into his searching blue eyes. “We could get you out of here. You could run away. Properly this time,” she said, close to frantic. “We could - I mean, I could - I’m a Grey Warden. I could get you out of the castle. I don’t know where you could go, but you’d be away, and safe, maybe, and…”

“No.” He lifted both of her hands, clutching tightly until he changed his mind, and just cradled them instead. “It’s too late.”

“No, it isn’t.” The bars were cold against the insides of her wrists. “I could talk to Bann Teagan. I could…Maker, I could just melt the locks and get you out. No questions, no arguments.”

“And when Bann Teagan realizes that the man who tried to kill his brother is gone..?”

“You’ll be far away from here, and so will I, and then I’ll save his brother, so he’ll have no room to argue.” Her eyes prickled, and she scowled angrily. “I don’t want…" she said and fought the urge to not say it, to not have the words out in the open between them, blistering. "I don’t want you to die.” 

“It’s too late, Arenyth. You know that. I’ve done too much.” 

She dragged her hands away and pushed her knuckles across her eyes. “Maker above. Jowan, I…” Her eyes were flooding, and she wondered if she could blame exhaustion, or the trials of being a Grey Warden, or the simple, plain truth that she had missed him, so much. _Why did we argue,_ she thought. _Why did we leave so much unspoken?_ “I don’t want to go.” 

“I know.” 

They would come for him, she knew, the Circle mages, and take him back to the Tower. And she would leave, and walk out freely, despite how she had once helped him. She had been pardoned, if only through Duncan’s insistence, and Jowan had been left behind. _Not left_ , the rational half of her mind stated. _He ran. Ran after Lily told him to stay away, and he ran with his own blood on his hands and made it out of the Tower._

“You used to hate waiting,” she said, her voice shattering. Her mouth tasted sandy, and her heartbeat was hurtling too fast. _You_ knew _it would end like this. You_ knew _, the instant you saw him in this cell._

“Arenyth.” Jowan reached through the bars, touched her hair where it spilled over her shoulder. “I am so sorry. For everything.”

“I wish - well, some part of me wishes - I could be there.” The words came thickly, like thorns dragged over her tongue.

“Yes,” he answered. “I would have liked that. But you need to find the Urn, and after that, well…this won’t matter. I won't matter.”

“You will _always_ matter, you idiot,” she snapped. “I’ve known you forever. We…” But this time the words dried up in her throat, and she just blinked rapidly. 

He wrapped a thick lock of her hair around his fingers. “I never meant -"

“It doesn’t matter. I could get you out.” It was absurd, she knew. The guards would stop her, Bann Teagan would stop her, Alistair and Wynne would stop her. He had poisoned Eamon Guerrin, and nowhere would mercy be found for such an act. “Jowan, I can’t lose you to this.” 

The stairwell door crashed open and she jumped. Torchlight flooded into the narrow corridor. Footsteps followed, hard and staccato against the damp stone. She was tempted to leap away from the bars, but no, she was not going to see him again, so Maker help her but she was _not_ going to leave him bereft, not now, not after everything. 

She noticed Wynne first, her face serene and not set in censure. 

“Arenyth. It’s dawn.”

She swallowed, and it was almost painful. “Wynne, I need…can I have a few moments?”

Wynne shook her head slowly. “We need to leave, now. Irving is - he’s sending templars down. I'm sorry.” 

She wanted to argue, wanted to rail at Wynne and tell her to take her damn message right back to the First Enchanter and explain that she would leave when she was good and ready. But there was no time, and Grey Warden or not, she was standing beside a maleficar, and they owned his fate. More footsteps rang against the stairs, and she heard Alistair’s voice as he mumbled something to someone about how they needed to go, and he did not understand, not really, but was this man not a blood mage? Leliana answered him, her voice soft and lilting. 

Arenyth pushed up to her feet. Ignoring Wynne’s plea to hurry, she reached through the bars, pulled Jowan close. “I’m sorry,” she said. “For everything. I don’t -I don’t want to go.”

“Ssh. It’s alright. I’m just...rather glad I saw you again.” 

"I'm rather glad I saw you too." She laughed, a desperate, gulping kind of laugh. “There’s so much I want to say to you.” 

“It doesn’t matter. I’m just so sorry.”

“Jowan.”

“You need to go,” he said, as gently. He was still looking at her, febrile and unblinking, never once looking away from her face.

“No, I…” But she had to, and she could hear the others in the stairwell, jostling and muttering. His name rolled past her lips again, some kind of talisman. 

Wynne clasped her shoulder, and she shook the older mage away. 

Still holding on to him, she wondered what words could suffice. “I’m going to miss you.” Before she could think better of it, she leaned forward, kissed his fingers where they were wrapped around hers. His skin was cool and soft, the bones beneath finely built, quite like she remembered. “Jowan…you mean everything to me.”

“No, I don’t.” Something flickered across his face, something old and sad and shadowed. “You don’t need to lie to me.” 

“I’m not. It’s the truth. You always have.” She lifted Jowan’s hand, pressed her lips to the wide, pale scar on his palm. Her throat felt tight, painfully so, but she raised her head. The look in his eyes nearly undid her, but she managed a smile. “Goodbye.” 

His fingers tightened around hers before slipping away. “Goodbye.” 

If she did not leave now, she knew she would stay, or sob, or sink to her knees, or all three. _And you are a Grey Warden and can do none of those things_. So she turned away, biting the inside of her cheek hard enough that she tasted blood. She was aware of Wynne behind her, a gentle hand cupped over her shoulder, and Alistair and Leliana waiting at the steps. 

She kept her gaze on the wall, on the thin lines and cracks in the stone. “The First Enchanter is upstairs still?”

“Yes,” Wynne answered. 

“Then I wish to speak to him.”

“Arenyth,” Wynne said, warningly. “This is not the wisest choice.” 

She held a hand up. She needed to get out of this dungeon, and quickly, away from its fetid air and the memories of the mage still standing at the bars. “I seem to remember a little moment where we saved the Tower. I think he owes me a few words at least, yes?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading :)


	4. Dreams

She discovered First Enchanter Irving in the small sitting room on the second floor, head bent in discussion as he spoke with three templars. After ordering her companions to wait, she strode across the threshold without waiting for permission. “First Enchanter?”

“Ah.” A smile creased his face. “Child. I had hoped to see you before you left.” 

“Good,” she said, clipped. She watched while he motioned the templars away. “I need to talk to you. About Jowan.”

Irving shook his head slowly. “Child, it has been decided. You know this. He’s a maleficar and cannot be allowed to live.” 

“He’s only _here_ because he wanted to make amends, First Enchanter.” 

“By becoming an assassin first?”

Foolishly she snarled, "He was made to do that, and you know it."

Irving folded his arms. “Child, this is not an argument that I am willing to have. Not with you, and not now.” 

“No.” Bubbling up from somewhere behind her ribs, the anger spilled up and over and she found she was shaking. “First Enchanter, you _know_ him.”

“And he lied to us, to all of us. He had an affair with an initiate, which is forbidden. He learned and practiced blood magic, also forbidden, and far worse.”

_“This is Lily.”_

_She looked across at the initiate, and swallowed. The girl was small, with thick red hair swept up from elegant cheekbones. Her Chantry dress clung to her hips and her shoulders in soft folds of peach and gold, and Arenyth suddenly wished she had bothered to wear something other than that moth-eaten old blue robe she found flung over her clothes chest this morning._

_She made herself look back at Jowan, and snapped the first vicious thing that sprang into her head. “My condolences, Lily.”_

_“Very funny,” Jowan retorted._

_“I wasn’t joking.”_

“First Enchanter, he never meant…”

"And you would know this, would you?” Irving pushed up from his chair. “Child, you are brave and you are strong and you are quite the mage. You saved the Circle, and I have been proud to call you my student.” He frowned, and she recognized it as the frown that meant he was resignedly angry. “But your judgment has ever been clouded around him.”

“No, that’s not…” _That’s true._ “First Enchanter, he doesn’t deserve to die.”

“He is a blood mage. And the penalty for practicing blood magic is?”

“Death.” 

“Then there is little more to say.” 

She dug her fingernails into her palms. “Then wait, at least.”

“For what, child?”

“Wait until we return,” she said, close to frantic. “Wait until Arl Eamon recovers. Shouldn’t he have some say in Jowan’s punishment?”

“And if you do not return?” Irving sighed. “Or if the arl does not recover? What happens then? No, child. We will leave today, and we will take Jowan with us.”

“To die.” She shook her head. “No, please. You could wait. Stay the execution.” 

“Why?” Irving’s eyes creased at the corners. “What would that achieve?”

“Until I come back.”

“Child.” The First Enchanter’s voice turned heavy and stern. “Do you think Greagoir would allow you inside the tower to witness Jowan’s execution? Do you think _I_ would?” 

“What exactly does that mean?”

“The only reason you will not be on your knees beside Jowan when it happens is because you are a Grey Warden.” 

Slowly she unclenched her jaw. “For helping a friend?”

“For acting as a willing accomplice to a maleficar.” Irving pressed a hand over his eyes. “And we all know he was far more than a friend, for a long time, child.” 

Heat flooded her face and she was suddenly very aware of Alistair and Leliana in the doorway behind her. “You never…” She needed to turn around and walk away, and right now, before she said something stupid. “You never said anything against it at the time, as I recall.” 

“No. You seemed to be taking the necessary precautions.” He shook his head slowly. “Child, we’ve all been young and trapped in the Tower. It is difficult, and I would begrudge happiness to no one. But we are not in the Tower now.” 

“Yes, but -”

“Why did you not let him go, yourself?” Irving’s gaze sharpened. “From what I understand, you arrived with your companions and discovered him. You’re a mage, child. Why not just let him out? Or try to?” 

“The castle was full of those walking corpses. He wouldn’t’ve…and the village, full of Bann Teagan’s men. He…he would have been caught again,” she said eventually. “He would have been caught, and it would probably have been worse.” _And you wanted to see him again._ Her eyes stung with the guilt of it, so she scowled until her vision cleared. “First Enchanter. He doesn’t deserve…”

“He killed templars,” Irving said, every word granite hard. “At the tower and later. According to what the arlessa’s guards managed to get out of him, he killed at least three when they apprehended him, and not cleanly.”

She wanted to shriek at him, scream that _she_ killed, nearly every day since Ostagar, and rarely cleanly. “First Enchanter.” 

“Child, I am not going to listen to yet another appeal on Jowan’s behalf.” 

“You won’t have to.” She could feel the blood roaring in her ears. “I don’t intend to ever step inside the walls of the Circle Tower again, First Enchanter. My future – whatever might be left of it – is with the Grey Wardens.” She spun on her heel, barely aware of her own voice as she barked out an order for Alistair and the others to meet her as soon as possible in the courtyard. She found Bann Teagan near the armoury, and snapped out, “We’re leaving.” 

"Yes.” Teagan nodded briskly. “I understand. What of the blood mage?”

“Irving’s taking him. They’ll take him back to the Circle, and he’ll be executed for his crimes.” Somehow, her voice stayed steady, but the grey stone walls on both sides seemed too high and too close. She hurried through a farewell to the Bann and stepped away from him and did not stop walking until the air against her face was cool and moving and smelled of fresh rain. 

X

Arenyth breathed in slowly, tasting woodsmoke and pine sap and her own sweat, still clinging to her lips. Her legs and shoulders ached, and she hoped that the brutal pace she had pushed all day might have been enough to let her sleep later. She reached out, tracing the rough bark of the tree in front of her. 

“That firewood you’re looking for must be particularly evasive tonight,” Alistair said mildly from somewhere behind her. 

She closed her eyes and wondered if he would vanish if she just wished hard enough. “You know firewood. Tricky little monster to catch, sometimes.”

He chuckled softly. “Do you want to talk?”

“No,” she snarled, before she could help it. “No, I do _not_ want to talk, to you, or to Wynne, or to anyone. Understand?”

She heard something jangling, and supposed he was shifting his weight, shuffling one foot against the ground. “You look like you need to talk.” 

“What do you want me to say, Alistair?” She whirled around. “What do you want me to tell you? That I made one mistake, and then another? And then another?” Before he could reply, she added viciously, “And don’t _think_ I didn’t notice how you looked at me.” 

“I…what do you mean?”

“When you stood in that corridor and I told you that I knew Jowan,” she said, as fiercely. “You looked like you’d just found out _I_ was a blood mage.” 

“No, I…” He shook his head. “I’m sorry. It’s just…you never said anything before that.”

“And _you_ never said you’re the heir to the bloody throne! And anyway, I _did_ say. I told you my closest friend at the Tower escaped. I told you I got drafted into the Grey Wardens because I was still there after he bolted. I told you he killed the templars.” 

“You never said he was a blood mage.” 

The accusation floated between them, tenuous and terrible, along with the unspoken. 

_You never said you were lovers once._

“Does it matter?” She raked her fingers through her hair, swore when they caught against her braids. “It was a long time ago.”

“Yes, but…I thought we were friends.”

“We _are_ friends, Alistair,” she snapped. She jabbed her nails against her scalp. “I’m sorry. I just…I went to Ostagar with Duncan, straight from the Tower.”

_“Child,” Irving said slowly. “You need to collect your things, and you need to go with Duncan. Now.”_

_“Right now?”_

_While the templars still lay dead on the floor, while Greagoir was looking at her like he wanted to string her up alongside the escaped maleficar? While Jowan’s blood was still splashed across the stone?  
_

_Numbly, she found herself nodding. Somehow she made it back to the dormitories, viciously aware of the templars as they flanked her. More aware than she had ever been, she thought, of the way they cut into the space next to her, how they crowded too close, how they bracketed her as they walked. Her hands shook as she chose a tunic and shirts and leggings, barely looking, as she grabbed at a longer, heavier robe because surely it would be cold outside, wherever it was she had to go. She wondered if she should take books, but surely that was stupid because books were too heavy. It was when she was fumbling the pack closed, the ties proving obstinate and slippery somehow that she noticed that her fingers were still tacky and red and her stomach roiled._

“I didn’t have time to do…well, anything. I just had to get ready and go with Duncan. There was no choice, and no time. And I’d never properly left that Tower in the entire time I’d been there. Can you imagine that?” 

“No,” Alistair replied hesitantly. “I guess I can’t. I’m sorry. Do you want help tracking down that pesky firewood? I’ve heard you need the eyes of a hawk to spot it sometimes.”

She let herself relax, even let herself laugh a little. “Thank you, ser knight. Your gallant help is appreciated.” 

Much later, she accepted a bowl of hot, slightly spicy stew from Morrigan, along with the mercy of no remarks, only a knowing look from the witch’s shrewd yellow eyes. While the others busied themselves with the last of the evening’s chores, and Dog happily shredded a dry tussock, she stared into the fire. Wynne left her a potion that promised easier sleep. Leliana idled the last of the evening away with Alistair and Zevran, thoroughly fleecing the pair of them at cards. Left entirely alone finally as the moon rose, Arenyth leaned back on her hands and wondered if she was going to be able to summon the energy to respond properly if they were attacked. The others had insisted on giving her the easy first watch, but even so, her head felt heavy and gritty. Still, she had weathered one too many sleepless nights at the Tower, so she supposed the after-effects of another one probably would not kill her. 

" _Are you alright? Say something, please.”_

_She turned her head on the pillow, tried to move properly. Her eyelids felt cast in lead. Every muscle and tendon throbbed. She felt the bunk shift as someone’s weight settled nearby, and her stomach roiled. “Oh. Feel dreadful.”_

_She heard Jowan’s nervous laugh. “But that means you’re alright, doesn’t it? That you came through it alright?"_

_She cracked one eye open. “No. Going to die.”_

_"_ _I didn’t even realize you’d been gone all night,” he said. “I was worried.”_

_She forced her other eye open and the blur of colour in front of her resolved into Jowan’s side and arm, one hand fanned out on the sheet._

_“Are you sure you’re alright?”_

_Something leaped towards her and she jolted back, then groaned when she realised it was nothing more than him, leaning over her._

_“Arenyth, it’s only me,” Jowan said helplessly. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”_

_“Yes, you’re terrifying,” she ground out. “Holy Maker, Jowan. What do you_ want? _I spent Maker knows how long last night trying to kick my way out of my Harrowing and I feel like I’m going to die, or throw up, or throw up then die.”_

_The tips of his fingers brushed against her sleeve. “I was worried about you. I was scared you wouldn’t come back at all.”_

Arenyth tipped her head back, gazed up at the thick swirl of cloud above. She wondered how much distance Irving and the templars had crossed. They would be moving quickly, she knew, hurrying with their prisoner until they could have him back inside the Tower and surrounded by wards that would counter his magical abilities. Would they kill him upon arrival, or would there be some trappings of a trial of some kind? 

“You are still awake, I see. Perhaps I should not be surprised.”

She flung a tired glance in Morrigan’s direction. “Hoping I’d fall asleep on watch?”

“That would be cheap mockery.” The witch sat cross-legged. “Memories are powerful, my friend.” 

“Yes. Yes, they are.” 

_Another night, in a stone room, all full of moonlight and the warmth of rumpled sheets and bare skin. They sat together, facing each other. Her legs were wrapped around his hips, her head buried against his shoulder. Beneath her cheek, she could feel the still-rapid thud of his pulse, the skin there delightfully dewed with sweat._

_Her hands slid up to twine through the loose black hair at the nape of his neck while his slipped down, tracing the small bumps of her spine. "Bit longer?"  
_

_He sighed out a soft laugh against her hair. "Bit longer."_

“Does it get easier?”

“Remembering?” Morrigan arched an eyebrow. “I do not know. I regret little. Perhaps I shall, in time, and my answer may change. This boy of yours. You did not know he had strayed into blood magic?”

“No.”

“Understandable, I suppose. He looked as little like a blood mage as anyone could care to imagine.” 

“And what does a blood mage look like, exactly?” Arenyth asked pointedly. She turned her attention back to the coppery play of the flames. “I was stupid. I should’ve…there were signs.” 

“Signs? Such as killing templars in front of you?”

Arenyth snorted. “Before that. He was…quiet. He was always quiet, but…there was something. I don’t know. I was foolish and didn’t see it. Didn’t want to see it." _Didn't want to see it, because that meant allowing herself to notice him again, to see him closer to how she had seen him before, when they were closer._ "He was tired, all the time. And he smelled different. That was - that was the part I should have noticed. Let myself notice.”

_“Arenyth,” the instructor said firmly. “Again.”_

_A tangle of white lightning glowed around her clenched hands. “Senior Enchanter,” she protested. “He’s exhausted.”_

_"He needs to learn,” the instructor insisted._

_Leaning against the table, Jowan nodded raggedly. “I’m fine.”_

_He was not, and she could see it in the dreadful pallor of his face, and how his hair was plastered with sweat. They had been at this same routine all morning; call a shield and hold it, and hold it firm until the opponent broke through. It was a punishing, grueling exercise, and she knew Jowan rarely lasted long._

_"_ _Alright.” Almost half-heartedly, she spun the spell up and threw it._

_It sputtered and died against his shield and he glared. “Stop going easy on me.”_

_“I’m_ not _going easy on you.”_

_Around his thin, tall frame, the arcane barrier glowed, suddenly fierce. “Prove it.”_

_“Have it your way.” She hurled the spell with as much force as she could muster from aching shoulders and tired hands._

_Jowan braced himself, and caught the brunt of the spell full across his chest. He staggered back, but the shield did not flicker. His hands came up, and he called up a jagged, unwieldy lightning spell. Arenyth had time to fling her own shield back up before the spell cannoned into her, sweeping her off her feet._

_She hit the floor hard, and swore. “That hurt.”_

_Jowan knelt beside her. “I told you not to go easy on me.”_

_“Oh, I won’t ever again, you sneaky bastard.” Grinning despite herself, Arenyth levered up onto her elbows. “This floor is harder than it looks.”_

_He clasped her hands, pulled her up. For a long, strange moment, her fingers dug against his sleeves, feeling the sharp lines of bone beneath. He was familiar and yet achingly not, she realised. This close, she could smell parchment and sweat and soap, and something else. Something that made her think of the scent of metal, or the way the air through the high windows seemed to prickle when the wind stilled, and a storm threatened over the lake. “Jowan?”_

_He jerked away from her. “Yes?”_

_“Are you alright?”_

_His eyelids flickered. “Yes. Yes, I’m fine. Why?”_

“Morrigan,” she said, quietly. “When you first went to Lothering, or wherever it was when you went first…were you afraid?”

“Afraid?” The witch’s teeth flashed in a quick smile. “I was bold. Too bold. But…yes, I was uncertain, as well. Apprehensive. This was a place utterly unlike that in which I had grown up. So very different, with its rules and its colours, and so many people.” 

“Yes. When I left the Tower with Duncan, it was…well, it was the first time I had been outside in many, many years.”

“Truly?”

“Apart from the odd evening spent sitting on windowsills.” 

Morrigan’s smile returned, edged with something bitter. “Then it is truly a prison.”

“A place of learning. And a prison.” Arenyth shrugged. “Not a bad place to spend an evening sitting on a windowsill with decent company, though.” 

But she remembered how black and big and bleak the night sky had seemed, stumbling through the doors after Duncan, Greagoir’s fierce glare on her shoulders. At the small docks on the Tower side, they had been delayed while another boat was found, and her mind had wandered horribly until she had decided that Jowan _must_ have got across the lake safe. 

“Morrigan, what would you have done?”

“At the castle? Why do you wish to know?”

“Because I don’t want to go to sleep yet. I suppose you would’ve melted the locks on the cell door, escaped and burned down the castle for good measure?”

Morrigan laughed softly. “Perhaps not the third part. But I would have been tempted.” 

“So was I.” 

She pushed up to her feet, groaned when her calf muscles twinged. Inside her tent, the air was cool and dark and welcoming. She kicked off her boots and dropped onto her blankets, buried her face against the fabric. Around her, the canvas walls hummed. Arenyth rolled over, gritted her teeth when she heard the wind keen around the tent. She needed to sleep, and she was aching, and her eyes felt hot and heavy and dangerously near tears. She sat up and briefly considered screaming or shrieking or maybe marching back out into the night. 

_“This is Jowan.”_

_Arenyth ducked under the senior enchanter’s elbow and peered at the skinny, black-haired boy with the sullen expression. “So?”_

_The boy folded his arms, rolled his eyes. “So, nothing,” he responded petulantly._

_“Go on.” The senior enchanter propelled her firmly forward. “He’s not far off your age. He’s going to look after you for a while.”_

_She folded her arms, almost entirely mimicking his pose. She glared up at him, noticing the set line of his mouth, the narrowed blue eyes. “Is that true?”_

_“I’m nearly eight,” he said. “How old are you?”_

_“I meant about looking after me.”_

_"_ _Oh." He blinked. "I suppose so.”_

She drifted into sleep, jolting back awake every time the wind howled. Like she had those first, desperate nights while she had followed Duncan to Ostagar, she flinched out of strange dreams whenever an owl called or the branches rattled. Dreams of Jowan’s hands streaming blood, and Greagoir’s voice, heavy with condemnation, and the smell of the dust in the apprentice dormitories. The soft feel of parchment under her hands, and the simple joy of seeing the way the sunlight poured through the high windows in the big library. The rippling paths of the Fade and Duncan, holding out a cup sloshing with darkspawn blood. 

Arenyth woke again. Between the knots at the tent flap, she could see grey light. 

She sat up and kicked the blankets away. She was still wearing the same clothes, and they stank of smoke and blood and mildew. She shrugged out of them and numbly chose a plain tunic and breeches and hard-soled boots for a hard day of marching. Outside, she discovered Wynne already up and adding fresh wood to the firepit. Arenyth nodded to her, receiving a faint smile in response. She meandered to where the trees curled down to the earth, thick and gnarled. She reached out again, touching leaves that were cold and damp with early dew. A brisk easterly wind ruffled the branches and swept her loose hair back over her shoulders. 

“You’re up early,” Alistair said, quietly. “Did you sleep?”

She turned, saw him watching her, one hand scrubbing through the disheveled thatch of his hair. His eyes were still bleary, and he stifled another yawn. 

“Not really,” she answered. “The wind in the trees…I thought I was used to it, but…”

“Could be worse. I mean, I think I spent half the night listening to Sten snoring.” 

She smiled slowly, ruefully. “That bad?”

“Skull-splitting.” Alistair linked his arms above his head and stretched. “Did you want breakfast?” 

She breathed in and tasted the cool dawn air. “Yes,” she said. “I did.”

_Through the panes, the first grey touch of early morning brightened the far edge of the lake. Arenyth reached up, touched the glass thoughtfully. She was leaning back against the reassuring warmth of Jowan’s chest, half-sitting between his raised knees. He had one arm loosely circled around her waist, while the other idly toyed with the ends of her hair. The windowseat was cold and uncomfortable beneath her robes, but she had no wish at all to move._

_“Not a bad way to spend a morning, hmm?”_

_"_ _No,” she answered. “Not a bad a way at all. Jowan?”_

_“Mmm-hmm?”_

_She smiled against his shoulder. “Nothing.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading :)


	5. Endings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick note to say that I have updated the tags for this last chapter. It's not graphic at all, but just a warning for the self-sacrifice theme that this chapter includes.
> 
> Thanks for reading :)

This high up, the air was glass-brittle and cold when she tried to breathe it. Haven had proved frozen and dank, and hiding terrible secrets. Many times at the Tower, she had read of the complexities of the weather and its changing moods, but this chill that sank bone-deep and sent her teeth chattering and the tips of her fingers numb was like nothing she had ever imagined. She spent the daylight hours swathed in furs and grouching about the frost, and emerged to sharp dawns cursing the night-time cold. Inside her boots, her feet were frozen and cramping again, and the rough terrain between the peaks was not helping. 

Up ahead, the path knifed between high walls of rock, slick with glaze ice. She walked carefully, hands locked around her staff, and with her breath pluming between chapped lips. Her heel skidded, and she swore. Alistair reached out and wordlessly steadied her. They slogged their way through a tall set of doors, and there, between one heartbeat and the next, she found herself staring at a figure that seemed cut from the cold air itself. He called himself a guardian, and seemed little more than a man in ornate armour, but when she looked at him, she could _not quite_ see the edges of his plate and helmet and weapon. He spoke, and his voice resonated strangely, and she supposed it was some magic of this place, though she could barely summon the energy to care properly. 

“Do you believe you failed Jowan?”

“Yes,” she said, quietly, angrily, truthfully. “Yes. I did. I know I did.”

More questions followed, and the others answered, but she was barely listening. She led them on, through stone corridors and under high, echoing arches. Deep beneath the mountain, they discovered a chamber full of whispering air and pale figures who demanded answers to riddles. Alistair and Leliana handled most of them, but she remembered enough of the history she had read at the Tower to step in for a few. 

The door at the far end of the chamber swung inwards, and she saw him. 

For a long, terrible moment, she wanted to bolt to him. Wrap her arms around him and bury her head against his chest and ask how he had done it, how had he known where to come, and how had he escaped the templars and the Circle? 

_No,_ she thought, her stomach still churning. _He’s at the Tower, or dead already. He_ cannot _be here.  
_

But Maker’s wisdom, _it looked like him_ . This thing, this spirit, whatever it was – it looked like him down to the unkempt mop of black hair and lazy stubble and finely-built hands and the way his collar was slightly askew, revealing the pale expanse of his throat. Blue robes because he liked the colour, and because red and yellow made him look sallow, _but he only knew that because she told him once_. 

Arenyth knotted her hands together. Someone touched her shoulder gently and mercifully said nothing. She was tempted to lean back, or turn away. But he was still standing there, his face open and fixed in a welcoming expression. _One that never came naturally_ , some insidious thought prodded. _Not unless they were alone together._

“You’re not Jowan,” she blurted. 

The thing – ghost, spirit, memory, whatever it was – only smiled. His mouth curled up in a frighteningly familiar way, and her throat tightened. “I didn’t think you’d be fooled.”

The voice was the same, and yet _not_ , somehow, as if the ghost had read about Jowan's voice, or stumbled upon an echo of it. The tone was too confident, the lilt on the words too wryly amused. 

“Why are you here?” she asked. 

“To see you.” He smiled again, and the blue eyes above sparkled. “I need you to know something.”

_“I need you to know something.” He leaned up on one elbow. His fingers played along her arm nervously. “I, ah…I’m rather glad we do this.”_

_Curled up next to him, Arenyth giggled. “Well, that’s a sweeping compliment just guaranteed to make a girl swoon.”_

_Jowan scowled. “I mean it.”_

_She traced along his ribs, smirking when he pulled away from her. “Sensitive.”_

_“Oppressed.”_

_She coiled herself closer to him again, so that her head was under his chin, so that she could kiss his chest. “I’m rather glad we do this too.”_

“What?” She gritted her teeth. “What could you possibly say that I would need to hear?”

“You need to forgive yourself. Forgive yourself, just as I have.” 

“That’s…” She wrestled with the urge to run away. His hands hung loose and calm at his sides, and she could not help but notice how _wrong_ that was. She was aware of the silence, and the spirit’s blue eyes, and oh Maker, the small scar on his chin. _The one he got when he was sixteen and made a mess of shaving._ “What’s the point of this?”

“The point?” Another easy, sweeping smile. “You have a long way to go, Arenyth. Don’t carry the past with you, not like this, not if you don’t have to.”

“You know me that well, do you?” 

“Of course I do. I’m you, I’m Jowan, I’m this place.” 

“You’re not Jowan,” she said again, every word granite-hard. “Jowan’s dead.”

“Perhaps. But you are alive.” 

The spirit moved, blue robes rustling. Slender hands clasped hers, warm against her chilled skin. She had expected the ephemeral brush of something not-quite-there, and the solid press of confident fingers startled her. He was too close, and her mouth and nose were abruptly full of the scent of lavender and his skin and lyrium. Every raw nerve in her screamed her to flee. “What are you _doing?_ ” 

“I have something for you.” His fingers tightened inexorably over hers. “I want you to wear it, and I want you to remember that it was not your fault. Maybe if we’d planned it better, or had more time, or gone another way…” 

“ _We_ didn’t plan anything,” she said. But she did not try to move, and for one awful, longing moment, she wondered if his lips would taste as soft and familiar as they always had. 

“Arenyth,” the spirit said, gently. “Be strong. You need to be strong.” 

Between one breath and the next, he was simply no longer there. 

Cupped in her palm, she held a delicate silver necklace. Forcing herself to look down, and away from the empty patch of air in front of her, she saw that it was beautiful, and set with a single, pale stone. She fumbled with the clasp, belatedly realising her hands were shaking uncontrollably. “Alistair?”

“I’m here,” he answered. “Are you alright?”

She could not quite make herself turn around and face him. “Could you…could you put this on for me?” 

Somehow, mercifully, her voice stayed steady. She waited, listening to the sound of her own breathing, while he stepped up behind her. He brushed her braided hair aside, quickly fastened the clasp at her nape. The pendant jangled against the other one, the one she had been given at the Joining, the one that hung dark with trapped darkspawn blood. 

“All done.”

She mustered a bright, shaky smile. “Thank you. Let’s see if we can find that Urn, shall we?”

She lasted until the echoing, empty corridors fell behind. She lasted through the bridge, and the flames, and the guardian’s final intoned pronouncement that they might take Andraste’s Ashes from the sacred Urn, and cure Arl Eamon, if they so desired. She lasted until they crossed back through the biting, clinging cold outside, and the great, terrible dragon on the high peak shrieked and swooped. 

Some part of her heard Zevran scream for her to move, to dodge, anything. Two arrows whipped past her head. Alistair thundered past her, shield held low, and his stance braced. Zevran shouted at her again and then she heard his footsteps behind her, hurtling. She darted away from him, her vision filled with nothing but the dragon’s gaping jaws and the darkness burning in its eyes. She called a searing column of flame, high and bright enough that it half-blinded her. She heard the dragon roaring, and the others calling her name, but she no longer cared. Her skin was flushed and on fire with the magic. The dragon curved overhead again, the thick flesh around its mouth bristling with arrows. The thud as the dragon landed shook her, bone-deep. She dragged up another spell, pulling it out of the anger that simmered inside her. A crackling wall of lightning, and she watched as it burrowed and snapped across the cold, iron-hard ground. 

“Arenyth! _Move! Now!_ ”

Zevran _again_ , she realised furiously. Why was he ordering her around? She drew her arm back, halfway to conjuring a fireball. Something large and dark sliced in front of her, and something else dug into her side. Pain followed, oddly distant, and icy. She narrowed her eyes, reached down. Saw how the blood was streaming from her fingers. She took another swaying step. She opened her mouth to say something, but the ground rushed up to meet her. 

X

She felt a hand wrap around hers, the fingers long and slender and cool. “Jowan?”

Zevran’s lilting laugh answered her, far too gentle. “No, my Grey Warden. I am sorry to be a disappointment.” 

She tried to lift her head, winced when her stomach somersaulted. She gripped his fingers tighter and realised that his hand was callused and wiry and probably smaller, and could not possibly be Jowan’s. “Sorry."

“Hush.” As gently, he extricated his hand from hers. “You need to rest. You were very badly hurt.”

“The dragon?”

“Morrigan and our brave templar taught the beast the error of its ways.”

“Is everyone else alright?”

“Yes. No one else thought it suitable to run straight at a dragon’s mouth wearing only those pretty robes of yours.” He pressed a potion bottle into her hands. “Drink this. You need to sleep.”

“Any chance of a hot bath while I’m just lying here?”

_“Arenyth, we really shouldn’t be doing this.”_

_“Oh, hush. I’ve bribed Ilanna to watch the door.”_

_“But the door doesn’t lock.”_

_She grinned and heaved her tunic and shirt off over her head in one smooth motion. The leggins followed, crumpling on top of the loose pool of fabric. “You could stand guard and watch if you want.”_

_Jowan scowled. “You’re evil when you want to be.”_

_“I know.” She dipped her hand into the hot water, watched as the steam twined up. “I’m also really cold and I am not going to throw away this opportunity. So are you going to stand there or are you going to join me?”_

_His hands flew to the buttons around his collar. “We still shouldn’t be doing this.”_

_“Mmm-hmm.” She sank into the water, sighed happily. “I know. We’re a terrible pair of apprentices. Now, are you coming, or do I have to wash my hair and the rest of me by myself?”_

_He was in the tub behind her in an instant, water sloshing over the rim._

_“My goodness.” She grinned over her shoulder at him. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you move so fast.”_

_He scooped up a large handful of water and quite firmly dumped it over her head. “And I don’t think I’ve ever seen you shut up so fast,” he said, laughing when she glared at him._

_“Oh, that’s it. You’re dead.” Giggling and spluttering at the same time, she twisted round. Her skin was slippery against his, and when she wrapped her arms around him and tried her level best to drag him under, she was almost certain that he let her._

_When they both surfaced he pushed her hair out of her eyes, still grinning at her. She was struck - absurdly, as if she had never seen him this way, and she supposed that she had not, in an odd sense, not slick and dripping like this - with how ridiculously young he looked, and how ridiculous she must look in turn, her cheeks splotched with heat and want. When he wound the sodden coils of her hair through his fingers and gently tugged, she let him. Reeled in against him, she nestled close enough to slide one leg up over his hip. Later, after they had made a mess of each other amid the cooling water, she was sprawled l_ _ax and deliciously indolent against him._

_"I don't think I can reach the towels."_

_"Don't care," she muttered. "I'm never moving, so you're stuck here."_

“Arenyth, my sweet? You’re not drinking it.” 

She swallowed most of it, almost gagging at the oily, cool texture. “Foul.”

“I’m sure Wynne will be most offended.” Zevran’s hand played down her cheek. “Do not scare us like that again, my Grey Warden. I thought for one terrible moment that Andraste wouldn’t be the only one coming down off this mountain in a very small bag.”

Arenyth laughed, then groaned. “Don’t make me laugh. It hurts.” 

“Forgive me.” Zevran squeezed her hands. “Go to sleep.”

She did, and for once, her dreams were blessedly quiet and unremembered. 

X

  
  


The months passed too quickly after the mountain and the ghosts. Arl Eamon was roused from his deathly sleep, and pronounced little the worse for wear. To Arenyth, tired and worn and just waiting for someone to tell her it was all over, it seemed as if the rest of the world was rushing towards something important. She lay on her side, blankets pulled up to her chin, listening to rain thrumming down on the tent walls. A day’s forced march away, she knew that Denerim burned; two parties of harried, injured scouts had brought the news before the sun had set. While Alistair patrolled the lines of Redcliffe soldiers in burnished, regal armour that sat strangely well on his shoulders, she had been packed off to rest. 

_Through the panes she could see the rain, sheeting down onto the grey lake below. She wrestled with the catch, swearing as she tried to push the window open._

_“You know,” Jowan said from behind her. “I didn’t think we did too badly today with those fire spells. Well, you didn’t. So there’s probably no real need to throw yourself out of the window.”_

_“Idiot.” She threw a quick grin over her shoulder. “Help me?”_

_He sighed, but surrendered and knelt on the windowseat beside her anyway. When he jerked the window wide, cold air rushed in through the gap, along with dampness and the first scent of winter. Arenyth reached out, letting the falling water spatter down onto her fingers. She turned her hand over, cupping her palm until she caught the rain._

_Awkwardly Jowan leaned out beside her, squinting into the clinging dampness. “It’s cold.”_

_“Yes.” With one arm wound around his shoulder, she leaned further out, tipping her head back so she could feel the droplets against her eyelids and her mouth and her hair. “I like it.”_

_Jowan wrapped his arms around her waist and hauled her back onto the windowseat. “You might, but I don’t want to find out exactly how far down the lake is from here."_

_Her hair was damp at the temples, wisping. She settled comfortably against his chest and sighed. “Spoilsport.”_

_He brushed rainwater away from her forehead and very gently kissed her. “Always.”_

_S_ _he breathed in, tasting the coldness again and the way it clung. “Jowan?”_

_“Mm-hmm?”_

_“Think we can leave the window open?”_

_She felt his answering laugh, and then his hands, stroking through her hair._ _“Oh, I think we can.”_

She kicked the blankets off, close to fuming, and scrabbled to find the boots she had tossed away earlier. She raked her hair into a loose plait and stumbled out through the tent flap and into the damp night air. Torches sputtered, smoking in the soft fall of the rain. The guard nodded to her and mumbled a quick greeting. 

She managed a reply before ducking past him, eyes firmly fixed on the damp earth. Somewhere past the hastily constructed smithy and the tent Zevran had told her the soldiers used mainly for dicing, she walked into Alistair. She dragged her head up, noticed again the incisive tilt to his head, the new strength in his stance. “Sorry. I wasn’t really looking where I was going.”

“I forgive you, I promise.” He folded his arms, his smile fading as he regarded her. “Can’t sleep?”

“Not really. I think I just want it to be over.” 

“I know what you mean.” He gazed at her for another long moment. “Arenyth. What is it? Apart from, you know, the whole thing where we’ll have to go into Denerim and find the archdemon. That one I know about.”

She stared down at her hands and fought to find words. “I’m sorry. I’m just very tired. I feel rather stupid about it, though.”

“Why?”

“Well, I’m not about to be made king. And I don’t have to give yet another dreadful speech in the morning.”

He groaned. “I’m not doing that badly, am I?”

She looked up at him, into his open face and sincere brown eyes and wondered if he would ask again about Morrigan. “No, you’re not doing too badly at all. I think you’ll be fine.” 

_“I saw Morrigan lurking outside your room earlier. The look she gave me was icy even for her. Did she want anything important?”_

_She curled her nails against her palms. She had already made her choice and it had come easily, almost unthinking. Painfully, she understood that it had been the only choice she had made for a long time that had come that simply, that immediately, that no, there would be no ritual, there would be no child housing the soul of a stolen old god, there would be no ancient power bound into the witch's blood. The archdemon would fall, and she knew how to ensure that happened._

_Morrig_ _an had left, snarling something about stupid decisions and how death was so much more certain, now._

_“No, I…no." She mustered up a thin smile. "Just…mages’ disagreement. Nothing to worry over.”_

_“Oh. Well, as long as everything’s alright, I suppose.”_

_Afterwards, in the pale morning, when it became obvious that Morrigan had fled, she had kept her mouth firmly shut and said nothing about blood rituals or choices or the terrible awareness that the witch knew all along what would happen when the archdemon met its end._

“Well, it’s nice to know that someone believes in me.” 

“I do,” Arenyth said honestly. She stifled a yawn into the back of her hand. “Suddenly sleep seems much more tempting.” 

Alistair grinned lopsidedly. “I’ll come running if the darkspawn swamp us.”

Back inside the empty darkness of the tent, she left a tiny point of light glowing beside her shoulder. Rummaging in her packs, she found the wrapped and stoppered flask of wine Oghren had palmed off on her weeks ago. She stared at the bottle, and the pale liquid inside, sighed, and let it drop. Her stomach was heavy and knotted, and she doubted she would keep down two swallows of it. 

Burrowing into the blankets again, she doused the light. The darkness yielded no comfort, and her thoughts wandered. 

_She dragged Jowan down the corridor, heard hisgasped-out laugh when she stumbled up the first flight of steps. She made it through the next door and he caught her around the waist, spinning her until she was facing him again. She could smell the sweet white wine on his lips, and her own head was enjoyably fuzzy. She knew she should probably be protesting or pushing him away, but when he pressed her against the wall and quite thoroughly kissed her, she simply gave in. T_ _oo soon, she heard footsteps, and wriggled out under his arms. She grinned at his noise of disapproval, grabbed his wrist again and tugged. “Come on.”_

_But the corridor proved distractingly long, and they ended up poorly hidden behind a tall statue. She pulled away from him long to breathe again, and said, “This is ridiculous. You know that?”_

_“Yes.” Jowan grinned down at her. His hair was disheveled, and his face was delightfully flushed. “Fun, though, isn’t it?”_

_She looked at him and laughed. There was no reason for it, except the wine and the warm night air and maybe the sparkling, pleased light in his blue eyes. She was still laughing when he swore and covered her mouth with his hand._

_"Templar,” he muttered._

_Entirely unrepentant, Arenyth gently bit his palm. “So?”_

_“Wicked girl.” When she dissolved into laughter again, he kissed her silent. “Upstairs, yes?”_

X

Arenyth stood at the gates of Denerim and watched the city burn. The dawn had been swallowed by the fierce glow of the flames and the ugly roil of clouds above. Her mouth and nose were full of the scent of death. Above the blackened spires and towers, the archdemon circled, sweeping great wings against the red sky. Whenever she looked at it, her head ached, and her fingers prickled. Somewhere behind, she was aware of Alistair and Riordan, voices rising as they argued. 

“Alistair,” she said, almost absently. “You’re staying here.” 

“I’m --- _what?_ ”

“You are staying here,” she said, her gaze still on the archdemon as it curved against the surging sky. “Don’t bother arguing, and don’t make me say it again.” 

“Why would…”

“You’re going to be king. You’re going to be a good king, and you can’t do that if you’re dead. If this is the only way I can help you, then I’m going to do it.”

“Arenyth,” he whispered. He was close enough behind her now that she could feel his hovering, horrified uncertainty. “Don’t do this.”

“The archdemon is going to die,” she said. “And so will a Grey Warden. That Grey Warden will not be you. I am as sure of that as I have ever been about anything.”

“Arenyth,” he said again. 

“Don’t argue. I’ll just get Sten and Oghren to hold you back.” 

He heaved in a shaking breath. “It might be Riordan, mightn’t it?”

“Yes,” she lied. “It might be Riordan.” She shifted around and let herself smile at him before leaning up and very gently kissing his cheek. “You’ll be a good king, Alistair.” 

She turned away from him then, in case he tried to reach for her, in case he tried to say anything else. She called for Oghren and Zevran and Wynne, and without looking back, she led them through the burning gates. 

_“Arenyth?”_

_She looked up from the table and the open book. “Yes?”_

_“Are you alright?_ _  
_

_“Better.”_

_“Good,” Jowan said._

_She leaned back in her chair and looked him up and down. “Why are you shuffling?”_

_He froze. “I’m not.”_

_“Yes, you are.”_

_“I was worried,” he said. “The healers said you probably shouldn’t be up so soon. Not after fainting like that.”_

_She shot him a pointed glare. “Oh? And you’ve never blacked out after trying to hold a spell too long?”_

_“No, I have, I just…well.” He leaned past her, flipped the book closed._

_“You do know I’ve now lost my page?”_

_“I know.”_

_She looked past him and saw that the narrow ravine of bookshelves around them was mercifully empty. “Do I get to choose your penance?”_

_“No.” He caught her wrist, pulled her out of her chair. “Not this time.”_

_There was something in his voice, something rough and rather unusual. “Jowan? Are you alright?”_

_“No. Not really,” he said, eventually, his eyes flickering. “I was so worried. I don’t know why. You’re always alright. And the healers sent me away, and told me you just needed sleep.”_

_“You were there when I woke the first time,” she reminded him, softer._

_“But not afterwards.”_

_She opened her mouth to say something reassuring, but then his lips were on hers, devouring words and breath and thought. Her hands clutched at his shoulders when he hauled her closer._

_“Holy Maker, you had me worried.” He leaned his forehead against hers. “Arenyth, I…I think I…”_

_“I know,” she said, too quickly, cutting him off. “We could go back to the dormitories. See if it’s empty.”_

_“Oh. That’s not what I meant.”_

_She grinned up at him. “Well, as exciting as this is, we’re still in the library, you know.”_

_“No, I meant…I needed to tell you something.”_

_She guided his head down, kissed him slowly. “Then you can tell me later. Right now I have this sudden desire to go elsewhere.”_

But he never did tell her later. And lying across him, listening as his heartbeat jumped every time she kissed his throat, she never did ask. 

“Arenyth?” Softly, Wynne touched her shoulder. “Are you ready?”

“Yes.” White light glowed along her staff. “I’m ready.” 

They discovered the roof of Fort Drakon littered with the dead. Arenyth stood, frightened almost speechless, as the archdemon lowered its great dark shape onto the far walkway. Furious fire burned in its eyes, and when it threw its head back and screamed, every bone in her rang painfully. There were soldiers up here, standing in solid ranks, bows strung. Others darted past them, forcing back the charging lines of darkspawn. There were mages up here as well, she realised, throwing tangles of blue-edged lightning that sputtered and cascaded off the archdemon’s spines. 

“Irving,” she called, as soon as she saw him. Ignoring Oghren’s gruff command to stay put and hurl some spells of her own, she bolted across. “Irving?” 

Rumpled and exhausted beneath sweat-soaked hair, the First Enchanter motioned more mages forward. “Arenyth. Child, you’re alright.” 

“Yes.” She clutched at the pale amulet that clanked against her collar, dug her fingers against the chain. She had no time left to be afraid, she realised. “First Enchanter, did he die well?”

“ _Arenyth_.” 

“Did he?” she asked, her voice as insistently steady.

“Yes. Yes, he did.”

She nodded slowly. Part of her wondered if he was lying. “Thank you.” 

She smiled, then, and looked across the scorched stone to where the archdemon waited, coiled and dark. Its mouth opened, and it screamed again. _I know_ , she thought quietly, the words as bright as if she had carved them in flame. _I know what you wanted to tell me._

The archdemon rose up against the crimson clouds, wings flinging wide. The pain in her head sharpened, and she gripped her staff. It roared again, close enough that it filled the sky with its anger. It was coming for her, she knew, coming for the drop of darkspawn blood that betrayed her as a Grey Warden. 

She breathed in the sharp scent of flame and steel, and felt free. 

_Grey dawn flooded through the high windows. Arenyth kicked the heaped blankets away from her warm, flushed skin. She felt drowsy, still close to sleep, but he was half sitting up, somewhere between groggy and awake, and far too tempting with the owlish way he was squinting. She leaned up, letting the pale light dapple across her hands._

_“You look far too decadent,” Jowan remarked lightly, his voice all thick with sleep._

_She laughed and flopped down beside him again. His bare skin was hot, and he murmured appreciatively when she burrowed against his chest. “You smell good."  
_

_"I stole your soap."_

_"Thief. What are we doing today?"_

_He sighed against the top of her head. "I think I'd rather stay here."_

_"I think I would too." She trailed her fingertips teasingly across his stomach, smiling when he squirmed away slightly. "I think we'd get hungry though."_

_"Now you're being the sensible one. That's my job."_

_"Jowan?”_

_“Mmm?”_

_“You’ll still want to see me afterwards, won’t you? After your Harrowing, and mine?”_

_He laughed. “Why wouldn’t I?”_

_She traced her way along his collarbone. “I don’t know. You’re older than me.”_

_“Barely.”_

_“You might go through your Harrowing first.”_

_“Maybe. It won’t change how I feel.”_

_She smiled against the crook of his shoulder. “Good.”_

_They lay silently together, curled around each other, waiting out the sunrise as long as they dared. She listened to him breathing, and the soft, barely-there sound of his fingers playing through her hair and down over her shoulders. Somewhere beyond the locked door, footsteps rang against the stone, quickening pace as someone called out and someone else answered over the clank of a closing door. It always happened so quickly, she thought, the way the sunlight stole these last few moments of each night from them. She found his other hand, firmly laced her fingers through his, his hand tightening in immediate response._

_“You know,” Jowan said. “Some days I think that maybe it’s not so bad after all, being here. Do you know what I mean?"_

_"Yes," she said. "I know what you mean."_ _She nestled under his chin, kissed his throat, and felt safe.  
_

_End_


End file.
